The man's heart-rending roars swept across Whiskey Peak's harbor in an instant.
The "residents" who, seconds earlier, had worn warm smiles and clinked glasses with pirates as sworn brothers now had stiff, twisted faces, as though they'd donned grotesque masks of terror.
The crash of shattering goblets, the thunder of overturned tables, and countless shrill, distorted screams replaced the merry laughter of moments before.
The bounty hunters threw away armor and weapons, fleeing on all fours without even shedding their disguises, desperate to escape the harbor.
The grand carnival masquerading as a celebration was unmasked in that instant.
"Monster! That monster's here!"
"Run! We'll die! Everyone will die!"
"Are you kidding me! How could something like that appear here!"
"Two-hundred-fifty million is not a level we can handle!"
Panic spread like a plague. In the blink of an eye, the harbor became a living hell.
The pirates who'd been "warmly welcomed" still held their bowls, staring in bewilderment at the sudden chaos, utterly lost.
Ryoma now stood at the edge of the pier, one brow raised at the uproar before him.
Some new kind of performance? A botched act?
He'd only heard a thunderous roar from the cactus-shaped building, and the whole town had gone mad.
The terror in that roar had felt real, not staged.
They recognized him from afar?
But did they really need to be this frightened?
He hadn't said he'd do anything to them.
Ryoma found it boring. He'd wanted a close-up view of these actors' farce, but their nerves were so poor they smashed the set before he even arrived.
He shook his head, uninterested in their hysterics.
His goal was clear: let the Log Pose finish storing the magnetic field, grab a boat, and head for the next island.
As for Baroque Works' bounty hunters...
So long as they didn't provoke him, Ryoma couldn't be bothered.
Cleaning trash still takes effort.
He stepped forward, ignoring the screaming hunters, and walked calmly into town. His pace was unhurried, his leisurely composure a stark contrast to the fleeing crowd.
Inside the tallest cactus building, the temperature seemed to drop below freezing.
Mr. 5's face flushed liver-red, half from the man's roar, half from having his High-Rank Agent dignity trampled.
Watching the rabble below, his rage surged.
"Trash! All of you! Trash!"
He kicked a table, sending bottles and food crashing across the floor.
"One name! One bounty! And you cower like this? Baroque Works' face is lost on you cowards!"
Miss Valentine, no longer bored, twirled her parasol and looked down at the man, disgust painted on her pretty face.
"How unsightly! If the boss knew his men were such wimps, he'd be disappointed."
The man lay panting on the floor, too drained to retort.
Terror had seized his heart, his mind replayed that man's rampage in Loguetown.
A madman who'd defied the Celestial Dragons and slain a Marine Vice-Admiral!
The Marine Admirals would have moved for anything involving the Celestial Dragons!
Yet that man still stood on the first island of the Grand Line?
It made no sense, it shouldn't be possible.
Mr. 5 strode to the platform edge and glared at the chaos below. His gaze swept the fleeing crowd until it locked on the one unruffled figure. That person stood calm at the center of the storm, as though nothing concerned him.
"That's him?"
Mr. 5 growled, voice thick with gunpowder.
The lookout, trembling, raised his telescope, then answered in a tearful quaver.
"Y-yes! That's him! Identical to the wanted poster!"
"Good."
A vicious grin split Mr. 5's face.
He felt insulted, by the man, by the useless grunts below, by the so-called frost fairy who'd caused it all.
A mere rookie dared embarrass a High-Rank Agent?
Unforgivable!
He would deal with the pest himself, take the rookie's head, and restore his authority.
"Miss Valentine, wait here."
Mr. 5 flexed his wrists, knuckles cracking like popping corn.
"I'll teach this clueless brat that the Grand Line is no playground for rookies."
With that, he leapt from the second-floor platform, slamming into the street amid a cloud of dust.
Miss Valentine spun her parasol and giggled. "My, such impatience. Still, it's perfect. Time to show what a High-Rank Agent can do."
Mr. 5 was a devil fruit user, handling some rookie from the Four Blues would be child's play.
The man closed his eyes in despair.
It was over, everything was over.
…
Ryoma stopped, watching a man drop from the sky in a shower of undisguised malice. He regarded the oddly coated, sunglasses-wearing, strangely coiffed man.
The fellow looked him over like inspecting merchandise. "Hey, you the so-called frost fairy?"
Mr. 5 dug in his nostril, then flicked the booger toward Ryoma—an outright insult.
"Not much to look at. Expected a six-armed monster, but you're just a pretty boy?"
Ryoma stared, expressionless. He was annoyed. All he'd wanted was to finish recording the magnetic field and leave. Why did idiots insist on buzzing around him?
"I asked you a question! Mute?" Mr. 5 burned hotter under that calm, dismissive stare.
He hated being looked at like a clown.
"Guess you need a lesson in manners."
He inhaled sharply and exhaled. An invisible pellet shot from his mouth, racing for Ryoma's face.
It was one use of his Bomb-Bomb Fruit: turning breath into tiny bombs.
As the pellet reached Ryoma's face, a faint chill flickered over his skin.
Thud.
The shot that could blast a hole in stone vanished half an inch from Ryoma, erased without a ripple.
Mr. 5's grin froze.
He stared, stunned.
His attack… gone?
"You—"
Before he could speak, the man vanished.
Icy cold surged up his spine from behind.
Mr. 5's body locked, every hair standing on end. He tried to turn but his limbs refused.
A hand thinly sheathed in frost touched the back of his neck.
"I hate when people flick boogers at me." A voice, calm and flat, whispered by his ear.
"So… could you please die?"